


Your voice can take me there

by rivers_bend



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: AU: Harry isn't famous, Blow Jobs, Drunkenness, First Time, Lingerie, M/M, Priest Kink, Talking, meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 15:08:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1231048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivers_bend/pseuds/rivers_bend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which agreeing to take Aimee's cousin April to her BFF's wedding is either the worst or best decision Nick's ever made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your voice can take me there

**Author's Note:**

  * For [no_detective](https://archiveofourown.org/users/no_detective/gifts).



> The Obvious: I do not know any of the people whose public personas are used in this story, and neither believe nor mean to imply any if it happened. 
> 
> This story would not be here without @tarted_up's excellent plot bunny wish for angst-free priest kink fic this morning on twitter. Thank you, bb. And for the read through <3

Nick is starting to think there is something wrong with his brain. Like actually wrong. Maybe he should see a doctor. A head doctor. Nick pulls his phone out and starts scrolling through his contacts. Surely he knows someone who can recommend a good head doctor.

A bloke at the edge of the dance floor bellows, “Yo, Bro! Whas’ the thing?” He seems to be looking at Nick. Maybe Nick should ring for an ambulance and ask to be taken into hospital. Who agrees to be the wedding guest plus-one of someone they’ve only met twice? Who _does_ that. He definitely needs hospy and someone to examine his brain. 

“Bro! Bro! Hey, Bro!” The dance floor man definitely has his laser sights set on Nick and is approaching. Nick scrambles out of his chair as quickly as his drunken legs will allow and beats a retreat. Not that Nick doesn’t love Americans. Some of them. But he’s never been able to abide for more than about three seconds a bloke who addressed him as ‘bro’ with any level of sincerity. Blokes who say “bro”, people who try to get him to read the bible with them, and people who stop and have conversations on the stairs of the New York subway. He’s strongly considering adding one Ms Aimee Phillips to his shit list, as she’s the one who got him into this mess. 

“Nick,” someone hisses from his left. It’s April, his date, and Aimee’s second cousin once removed. There are cousins and removals in there, anyway. She’s beckoning him towards a door that must lead to some kind of kitchen, given the number of catering staff who’ve come out of it over the course of the evening. Since they often come bearing trays laden with booze, Nick’s paid attention. He heads her direction. It’s not her fault her boyfriend is back in their hotel in London sweating out a fever. And it’s not that he can’t see why she couldn’t bear to come to this shindig on her own. He shouldn’t avoid her.

They duck behind the door and Nick pauses to peer at an angle through the porthole window to see if bro-bloke has lost the scent. The man stops, looks confused for a moment, then finds a new target, turning away, shouting, “Yo! Bro!” again. 

“Good god,” Nick mutters. 

“He’s Noelle’s brother,” April says. Nick wonders if Noelle is the bride. He’d thought the bride’s name was Nicole, but he’s not actually met her, and the Vicar spoke like a church mouse when he did the vows. “No one likes him, but you can’t not have your own brother at your wedding.” Bride then. Good to know. 

“Rich coming from me, I know,” Nick says. “But he’s a bit loud.” 

“He’s also really handsy—“ April looks at Nick— “though maybe not with you. Anyway. He’s an ass. Arse?” Her attempts at an English accent are even more amusing than Aimee’s, and Nick smiles at her efforts. “Avoid him.” 

“Will do.”

A young woman in a bow tie comes down the corridor with a tray covered in frosty bottles of Stella. Not Nick’s first choice, but alcohol is alcohol at this point, and he gives her a desperate puppy look so she slows down enough he can grab two before she swings through the door. 

“Is one of those for me?” April asks. Ever the gentleman, Nick hands one over. 

*

By the time Nick’s danced to a few tunes with his date, obligingly entertained the bride’s father with tales of being a radio DJ, and flattered the groom’s mother about her frankly alarming hat—he’d love to send a snapchat to Aimee, but he can’t get an angle that doesn’t let the woman know he’s taking her picture—Nick’s had several more beers, more than a few glasses of champagne, and not nearly enough of the wandering horses ovaries. 

Which, ugh. That’s a terrible thing to call them. Why has he never realized that before?

Nick scans the room again for anyone he might possibly want to have a conversation with, but there’s no one. No shy, gay nephews, no brassy sisters, no black-sheep twinky club kids. Not that he’d expected much better from a straight wedding in Milton Keynes. Who gets married in Milton Keynes? The bride is from somewhere in New York, for fuck’s sake. Couldn’t she have convinced her bloke she should get married in her home town instead? 

As his eye scans past the window, Nick sees it’s no longer raining. Perfect time to go outside for a smoke. 

Unable to find the side door again, though he’s sure he went through it just a couple of hours ago, Nick goes out the front, and makes his way through the wet parking lot to the corner of the building where there’s a bit of light. He’s finished his fag and is considering having a second when a low dark car pulls into the space nearest him. 

The person who gets out is wearing a long coat and an even longer black dress, very plain, more like a nun’s habit than anything you’d wear to a wedding. Not a nun, though, because no wimple. It’s pretty dark outside the circle thrown by the spot above him, but he’s sure he can see dark hair pushed off the figure’s face and curling around their ears and neck. 

“Hiya,” Nick says, never good at ignoring potential company, especially when he’s standing in a spotlight and it would seem rude to ignore them. 

“Hiya,” a voice says back. Low. Far too low to be a woman, honey sweet and drawn out slow. He turns towards Nick’s corner and his face goes with his voice. Gorgeous and honeyed too, even in the fringes of a halogen glare, with a slow, sweet smile. Nick might be in love. The bloke steps forward, and again, coming to join Nick in his corner hideaway, and his coat swings open to reveal his outfit. Definitely wearing a dress. A frock. Little white collar peeking out the neck and everything. A priest’s frock. 

Perfect. The only thing this night had been missing was a drunken crush on a man of the cloth. 

“You’re, oh…” Nick says, trailing off dumbly when he realizes that pointing out the obvious is useless and he’s not sure what else to say. So. Much. Alcohol. 

“No,” the priest says. “I’m Harry. Though I did go to school with a girl named Oh. It wasn’t her first name or anything, that was Natasha. She tried to cheat off me on a test once because she forgot to study for it.”

Nick is staring. He can _feel_ himself staring. Eyes wide, mouth not even closed properly. He closes it. Then opens it again when it becomes clear Harry has stopped speaking. “I’m Nick,” he says. 

Harry holds out his hand like he wants to shake. Nick’s never shaken hands with a priest before, he doesn’t think. But it’s not like this is the Pope or anything. Nick’s pretty sure you can just shake a priest’s hand. No kissing rings. At least if you’re standing in a parking lot smoking, and not actually in a church. Nick shakes. Harry’s hand is warm and soft, his handshake firm and lingering. It’s a lovely handshake to go with his lovely voice and his lovely face. And his lovely smile that looks like he thinks Nick is the most interesting person he’s seen all day. That could be the alcohol— Nick has been told more than once that he tends to think people find him more interesting than he is when he’s drunk, but he’s pretty sure it’s Harry. 

“You’re lovely,” Nick says. Oh god. Why. He’s still holding Harry’s hand as well. The _priest’s_ hand. He’s holding it. And telling its owner that he’s lovely. 

But Harry just smiles, and he doesn’t try to let go. Must be ministering. Priests do that, right? Like to the poor. But in this case to the wasted and pathetic. “I think I might be sick,” Nick says, finally wrenching his hand out of Harry’s so he can turn and vom into the bushes. 

*

Nick wakes up in a totally unfamiliar room. It’s got a pebble dash ceiling with a stain in the corner, a cheap wardrobe that seems to be missing a door, and an ancient looking milk glass light fitting. Nick’s mouth seems to be lined with rotting sandpaper, and his limbs are unreasonably heavy. Which is unpleasant, but would be more tolerable if he had any idea where the fuck he was. 

Gingerly, and with far more effort than should be required, Nick rolls his head to the side a bit. There is someone in the bed with him. It’s not April, because she’s a bottle blonde, and this person, though ninety-eight percent duvet lump, definitely has brown curls sticking out the top. “Blarrr?” Nick inquires helpfully to the room at large. That’s when he notices the wardrobe is not, in fact, missing a door; it’s just open. There seems to be a priest’s frock hanging from it. 

What. 

Nick shifts against the sheets. It would appear he is naked. No, wait, those are pants. Which is—good? If he’s in bed with a priest. He generally sleeps with a shirt on as well, though. Shifting a bit more, he gropes under the covers enough to discover that whoever he’s in bed with is also naked. In the not-wearing-pants sense. Nick knows an unclothed hipbone when he feels one. This priest has the hipbones of a model. But why is he naked?

“Why are you naked?” Nick asks. It comes out more like, “Whar nakt,” but the sentiment stands. 

A sleepy eye emerges from the duvet to join the shock of brown hair. Then a cheekbone, some nose, another eye. His cheek is pink and stubble free, his eyes are green, and his mouth, when it appears, is cherry red and pursed softly in confusion, and in the light of day this priest hardly looks eighteen. Nick really hopes he didn’t shag him. It would be the actual worst tragedy of his life if he shagged this beautiful—naked, let’s not forget naked—creature and doesn’t remember it. 

Oh. Plus, Nick should definitely not be shagging priests. That’s bad. And, mostly, not in the naughty fun way. At least not for the poor priest. Nick desperately doesn’t want to have done anything that would cause this boy to be fired, or whatever it is they do to priests. 

_Defrocked_ his brain supplies. Nick glances at the wardrobe again. Defrocking definitely seems to have happened here. 

“Whar what?” the duvet lump with the sleep-rumpled face murmurs. 

Nick opens his mouth as wide as he can and wiggles his jaw a bit. “Why are you naked?” he tries again. Much better. “And where am I?” 

“Because I’m sleeping,” the boy says, like everyone sleeps in the nude when bed sharing with strangers. “And, my hotel room.” 

“Right,” Nick says. The name Harry swims to the surface of his brain. A cigarette. A steadying hand on his back as he tipped his guts under a bush. “Oh god. Please tell me I didn’t vom on your shoes.” At Glastonbury once he’d done that to a pretty sound tech he’d been trying to pull. It was ugly. 

“No,” Harry says. “You have good aim.”

“Did we—“ Nick tries to convey _break all your holy vows_ without coming out and saying it. 

“You couldn’t—or wouldn’t?— tell me where you belonged, so it seemed easiest to bring you upstairs with me. I thought you’d be more comfortable out of your suit, but I didn’t take advantage if that’s what you’re worried about. I wouldn’t do that.” Harry looks very earnest, and quite concerned. 

“No, no,” Nick hastens to reassure him. It occurs to him that he’s still lying mostly naked in bed with this adorably rumpled concerned person, a mere six inches between their noses, and it doesn’t feel weird. It should feel weird. _Priest._

The wrinkles between Harry’s rather spectacularly groomed eyebrows smooth out. 

“I was just thinking I might have— I don’t make a habit of, you know, trying to pull priests, but I don’t remember much of last night after the—“ Nick decides that there’s been quite enough mention of his former stomach contents for one conversation, so he waves his finger a bit, hoping that will suffice. 

“Priests?” Harry says. Now he looks more confused than ever. Which is odd, given that was part of the sentence Nick’s quite sure he said aloud. 

“Priests. You are a—“ This time Nick waves his whole hand, in the direction of the wardrobe. Harry’s eyes follow his fingers. 

“Oh my god,” he says, and starts to laugh. And laugh. And laugh so hard he pulls his pillow over his head to muffle the hooting noises. Nick tries to peel up the corner to peer underneath it, but Harry has it in an impressive grip. 

His laugh is infectious, and Nick can tell by the bubble in his chest, if he weren’t so hungover he’d be laughing along, despite his abject confusion. 

Finally, Harry peeks at Nick from a crack between the pillow and the mattress. “You thought I was a priest.” 

Nick can’t help smiling at him, even while he’s struggling to see why this is all so funny. “Yes,” Nick says, waving at the frock again. “I thought you were a priest.” 

“Is that why you kept asking me if god thinks blow jobs count as sex?” 

Nick didn’t. “I didn’t. Please tell me I didn’t.” 

“Six times, at least. Before I started taking your clothes off. I kind of lost count after that.” Harry starts laughing again, but less violently, and it doesn’t deter him from putting his head back on top of the pillow. 

“I am actually the worst,” Nick moans. 

“I thought it was cute.” Harry pats Nick’s face gently, just once, pushing his hair back off his forehead before taking his fingers away and tucking them back under the duvet. They were only there for a second, but Nick misses them anyway. 

“You _were_ wearing priest clothes, though. I wasn’t imagining that.” 

“My mate was having a Tarts and Vicars party, and I chickened out of my tarts costume last minute because I couldn’t find any shoes to fit and fishnets and a chelsea boot didn’t seem quite the thing, and that was all the costume rental place had left by the time I got there.” 

Nick’s brain is stuck on the part where at some point, possibly as recently as yesterday, Harry was wearing fishnets. And he didn’t get to see it. “Tarts?” he says eloquently. 

“And vicars.” Harry nods. “Twee, I know, and like twenty years out of date—which is why I thought I should go as a tart—but what can you expect from a bloke from Milton Keynes whose favourite movie is _Bridget Jones’ Diary_?”

“I have shoes,” Nick says, and that was not at all what he intended to come out with. Though it’s true. “What size are you?” 

Harry looks delighted rather than alarmed, which is something. “Not quite your size,” he says, adding with a leer, “In the shoe department, anyway. But my feet are still growing.” 

Nick feels as if he’s losing control of this conversation. “You are definitely not a priest.” 

“Definitely not,” Harry agrees. “But we can pretend if you want to.” Harry puts his hand back on Nick’s face, but this time rubs a thumb along his cheekbone, lets his fingertips stroke Nick’s neck. 

“Oh, god,” Nick says. 

“Who does consider blow jobs sex, by the way,” Harry says, beaming. “Lucky for you—and me—I like sex. A lot.” 

Priest costumes. Fishnets. Roleplay. Blow jobs. It’s all a bit much for this early in the morning. “I need a toothbrush,” Nick says. “And possibly some coffee.” 

The fingers on Nick’s neck tighten as Harry leans toward his face, and for a flash of a second Nick’s terrified Harry is going to kiss him before he gets either of those things, but he just plants soft lips on Nick’s forehead. “I think that can be arranged,” he murmurs, then rolls away. 

When Harry pulls boxers on before he stands up, Nick’s not sure if he’s disappointed or relieved. 

 

Harry offers Nick use of his toothbrush, but Nick remembers that he’s got a suitcase with all his own toiletries in, and his own room, in this very hotel. Assuming they didn’t leave the site of the wedding reception. “I think I have my own,” he says. “If my room key didn’t fall out of my pocket.” 

It hadn’t, nor had his phone, his car keys, or his wallet. Nick’s lucky he ran into Mr honest chops here. “Thanks for not robbing me,” he says. 

“A priest would never rob a man that down on his luck,” Harry says, not pretending he isn’t watching Nick dress. “Plus, you’re cute, and I was trying to make a good first impression.” 

Trousers and shirt back on, Nick feels a bit less vulnerable. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and checks the time: 9:42. He has six messages from Aimee. “I need—“ he says. “I disappeared last night. Might need to soothe some ruffled feathers. Don’t suppose you’re still around later? We could maybe get some lunch before I have to go back to London.” 

“I’d love to,” Harry says, “but I have to get back to London myself. What about tomorrow? I could do lunch tomorrow.” He bends down, presenting Nick with a wicked view of his softly furred thighs, and tight arse flexing under his boxer briefs. 

Nick’s pretty sure the sound that escapes his lips isn’t loud enough for Harry to hear. Mostly sure. He’s hopeful.

When Harry stands again, he’s got a phone in his hand. “What’s your number?” he asks. But Nick doesn’t know his own name at the moment, never mind his number, because bending over did something to Harry’s… something, and he’s now sporting a distinct and mouth-watering bulge where before he just had the usual guys-at-the-gym-level package which Nick could ignore. 

Harry looks as though he’s going to repeat the question, but then his eyes track Nick’s gaze, and he reaches down and cups himself. It’s not a gesture meant to hide. Nick can feel himself flushing. “I—“ Nick says, and hands his phone over. 

“You—“ Harry replies, typing something into Nick’s phone, then something more, which makes his own phone beep. “Are going to go find a toothbrush, and probably a shower and some clean clothes, and then you’re going to unruffle whatever feathers got ruffled, and drive back to London. Where I hope, you’re going to think about me in either a priest’s frock, or fishnets, or both, and then text me the address of where you’re taking me to lunch tomorrow.” 

It’s like he’s a mind reader. “Okay,” Nick says. He can’t remember the last time he met anyone who had him at such a loss for words. It’s probably the hangover.

Harry tucks Nick’s phone back into his pocket, kisses him on the cheek, and shows him out the door. 

*

The shower in Nick’s room is miserable, but with clean teeth and clothes, he feels able to cope with Aimee’s texts. If he’d been at a wedding with her, she’d have figured he went off with a hot boy if he disappeared in the middle, but April’d somehow convinced her that Nick had been abducted by aliens or worse. 

“You weren’t in your room,” Aimee says when she gives up on texting and rings him. “You _never_ go back to their room.” 

“I wasn’t exactly doing my own decision making,” Nick admits. “Too busy vomming on my own shoes.” He’s allowed a bit of hyperbole, he figures, in a story that already features fake priests and fishnets.

“Ugh. Gross. I hope you weren’t wearing the Saint Laurent.”

Okay. Maybe no hyperbole. “I didn’t _actually_ vom on my shoes. It was in some bushes. But the point is, Harry didn’t know where to take me, so he took me back to his.” 

“Oooh, Harry is it? You remember his name?” Aimee is the only person Nick knows who can manage to sound delighted for you and snide as hell at the same time. 

“I’m not that bad with names,” Nick protests. 

Aimee snorts. “Not if you bother to learn them, no,” she says. 

“I hate you. Leave me alone. I have to go apologise to your cousin.” 

“You do,” Aimee agrees. “And bring her back to London for fuck’s sake. I’ve had Ricky on the phone three times already this morning asking me when she’s going to come back and mop his fevered brow or whatever. I’m certainly not going over there to do it for him.” 

April, Nick imagines, would be quite soothing if you had the flu. No surprise Ricky wants her back. Especially if he’s been dealing with Aimee in the meantime. 

“I will,” he promises. “God forbid anyone tries to make you mop.” 

“God forbid. But I expect full rundown on this Harry fellow before nightfall, mister. Don’t think you’re wiggling out of it.” 

“Leave me alone,” Nick repeats, though he knows it’s in vain. He does at least have a few hours reprieve. 

Despite the worry Nick caused her, April is very forgiving, and the drive back to London is as pleasant as driving in wet weather with a hangover can be. He has her dropped at the Thistle Kensington by noon, and is home and in bed with a pint of water, a packet of chocolate digestives, and some sweet tea by one. Just as well, as he’s reached the part of the day where the night before catches up with him. 

*

When Nick’s phone wakes him up, he figures it’s Aimee ringing to get her goss, but his screen says _Father Harry_ when he picks it up. “Ha ha,” he says, answering. “Very funny.” 

“Thought you’d like that,” Harry says, and Nick had forgotten already how deliberately Harry speaks. “Did you sort everything out with your friend?” 

“Yeah.” Nick checks the time. It’s gone seven; that was a hell of a nap. “I’m forgiven.” 

“No hail Marys or anything?” After a drunken evening he can’t remember and a hungover half hour this morning, Nick shouldn’t be able to picture the smile that goes with the lilt in Harry’s tone, but he can. 

“No. I only had to pay for the coffees.” 

“You got off easy.” 

Still a bit sleep befuddled, Nick’s not entirely sure he should trust his reading of the situation, but he remembers the curl of Harry’s hand around his junk this morning, and says, “Haven’t got off at all, yet, actually.” 

Harry laughs, a warm, happy sound that sends bubbles through Nick’s chest again. “Good thing I rang, then. I know we said lunch tomorrow, but I thought maybe, if you weren’t busy? You might want to come round tonight. Or I could come to yours. I have flatmates if that makes a difference.” 

Nick shouldn’t. He can still feel the hangover lurking behind his eyes, and Aimee’s called dibs on at least part of his evening, and he doesn’t even _know_ Harry. Doesn’t know anything about him. Except that he was willing to go to a Vicars and Tarts party as a tart, and he didn’t so much as go through Nick’s pockets when he had the chance, he doesn’t believe in leaving drunken strangers to fend for themselves, he looks fantastic in nothing but a pair of pants, and Nick needs to hear him laugh again. “Yeah,” Nick says. “Come here.” He gives Harry his address. 

 

When Nick answers the door forty minutes later, he’s wearing his oldest pair of jeans and a plain white t-shirt. Harry is wearing the priest’s frock, and is carrying a bag that smells like the Thai takeaway on the corner. “I’ve not eaten yet,” Harry says in greeting. “I hope you don’t mind. I brought enough for two.” 

Nick waves him in. His mouth is dry and his hands are wet, and who even _is_ this boy? “You sure you aren’t really a priest?” Nick asks, though he means to say he doesn’t mind at all and he hasn’t eaten yet either, and thank you for bringing dinner. 

Harry grins. “Nope,” he says. “Just a bit kinky when I’ve got the chance, and I only have the costume through tomorrow.” 

Nick finds himself grinning back. “Well then. I’m starving. Let’s eat.” 

 

The last time Nick ate with a priest, he was at a wake, and it wasn’t so much eating with, as eating while in the same room as. He and Harry are passing boxes back and forth, and even stealing off each other’s plates when Harry accidentally tips all but one of the spare ribs onto Nick’s, then takes every last piece of broccoli for himself without noticing. Nick puts the telly on and they argue over the cars on Top Gear while they eat. Nick tries not to stare too much at the collar at Harry’s throat. He’s never had a priest kink before. Not really any kind of uniform kink. But something about the idea of a Harry that’s off limits—even though he’s stated blatantly and repeatedly that he’s most definitely on the menu—makes Nick all twitchy under his skin. 

While Nick’s in the kitchen putting plates in the dishwasher and trading leftovers for the bottle of Riesling in his fridge, Harry turns the telly over to Pawn Stars. “Sorry,” he says, starting guiltily when Nick catches him, remote in hand. “I get addicted to this every time I go home to my parents’. But I’ve not got Sky at mine, so I haven’t seen it in ages.” 

Nick can’t help laughing at him, covered neck to ankle in austere black, watching reality tv with bad porn pun names. “It’s fine,” he says. “I love this, too.” He pours out the wine and they settle back on the sofa. It’s almost like any of the hundreds of other nights Nick’s had a friend round for dinner and telly, except when Nick asks Harry if he’d like a top-up, Harry leans in and kisses him. 

It is not a soothing forehead kiss, or a goodbye peck on his cheek. It’s a full-on, hello, next stop’s my hand on your dick kiss, and Nick’s startlingly ready for it. 

He does get a bit tangled in the voluminous folds of Harry’s frock, but he manages to get his wine glass put down safely, and himself mostly reclined, and Harry mostly on top of him, with no spillage of either liquids or limbs onto the floor. And it’s good. The kind of good that puts a smile on your face and then wipes it off again because your lips have better things to do. The kind of good that makes Nick almost wish he’d gone for trackies instead of his jeans, because he’s already getting uncomfortably hard in the confines of his zipper and Harry’s hips. But also the kind of good where uncomfortably hard doesn’t matter enough to make you want to stop. 

They’ve been snogging long enough for Nick’s hands to have made Harry’s hair look like he’s stuck his finger in a plug socket when Nick runs his toes up Harry’s leg and discovers the distinctive pattern of fishnets over the top of his boot. “Oh christ,” he gasps, pushing Harry far enough away he can get some air. Harry’s mouth looks like sin. And. Well. There’s the fishnets. Nick takes a moment to process what he’d felt running his hands over Harry’s back. There’d been a few bumps he’d taken to be wrinkles in whatever shirt he was wearing under his frock, but maybe— “Are you wearing a corset under there?” 

“It’s more—“ Harry takes a breath of his own. “More like a basque, I think? My sister tried to explain the difference once.” 

Nick’s sister had never bothered explaining such things to him, and though on bets and dares and at various parties, he’s worn all kinds of different shapes of corset things himself, he’s never bothered finding out what they were called. “Well then.” He says. 

“Well then.” Harry gives him a saucy little shrug. “Is now when we talk about what you want me to do with all this kit I’ve got on?” 

Never, is when Nick would like to talk about what he wants, if he’s being honest. He’s always got on fine with mumbled “is this okay?” if action doesn’t work, but this is admittedly a bit more complicated than exchanging hand jobs in a club toilet. “Um,” he says. 

After a pause to nuzzle at Nick’s neck, Harry whispers in his ear. “What do you like about the priest thing? Is it that I’ve never been touched before?” 

“Mmmhm?” Nick answers. It’s definitely not _not_ that. The idea of getting to see Harry’s face the first time he feels another man’s hand on his cock, a mouth. Hearing the sounds he makes when he discovers that Nick wants to lick him _there_ , open him up with his tongue— Yeah. Okay. That is a thing. 

“Or is it knowing that I’m not supposed to want you. Not supposed to _have_ you, but you’re so irresistible I can’t help myself?” Harry punctuates this with a hand wormed between them to stroke the length of Nick’s cock trapped in his jeans. It makes it hard to answer. 

“We could pretend I’m a lonely priest, pious and devout, until I hear your voice on the radio one morning, maybe through the wall. My secretary’s listening to Radio 1 instead of Radio 4, and I can’t stop thinking about the way you laugh?” 

And wait. Wait. Nick fumbles at Harry’s shoulders, pushing him until he can see his face. “You know who I am?” he asks. He’d figured— Harry hadn’t mentioned knowing who Nick was. 

Harry seems to think Nick’s being silly. “Of course I know who you are. Everyone knows who you are.” 

Nick wants to argue with that, but Harry continues. 

“See your face every morning when I open my iPlayer at work. Wondered sometimes when I first moved down here if I might run into you in a pub or summat, though I never reckoned it would be having a fag in a hotel car park in Milton Keynes.” He traces the curve of bone under Nick’s eye, then down his jaw to the corner of his mouth. “Was I not supposed to recognize you?” 

He supposes not. It’s just most people say, _oh, you’re that fella off the radio, the one who does the breakfast show,_ or, _aren’t you Nick Grimshaw?_ Harry’d just treated him like he was any other bloke you might meet pissed out of his head of a Friday night. “No? I mean, yes? I suppose,” Nick says. 

With a quick dip of his head, Harry kisses him on the mouth. “I work for a talent agent. I’m used to famous people figuring I know who they are. I get along better when I don’t make a big deal out of it. There’s just a few people who want to be treated like the queen of Sheba, but Leslie lets me know who they are up front generally.” 

That makes sense. And Nick is definitely not the queen of Sheba type, so he should shut up and let Harry get back to the kinky priest and/or tart sex they are in the middle of having. Hopefully. If Nick didn’t bugger it up. 

“Indeed. Yes. That. Carry on, then.” 

Harry raises an eyebrow and quirks half his mouth into a wry smile. “You sure? I can stop and fawn over you for a bit if you’d prefer. Ask for your autograph. Make you take a selfie with me?” 

“No,” Nick says hastily. “No. Go back to—“ But a priest falling in lust with a famous DJ isn’t exactly what he wants, maybe. “What about if I’m the secretary? Nothing to do with the radio at all?” 

Harry’s face lights up. “I like it,” he says. “And you take my calls and make my tea and organize all the things I have to do, and you wear those tight little suits like you wore to the Fashion Awards thing last month, and you’re forever fiddling with a pen, can’t keep it out of your mouth, and I know what you do with that mouth, because I’ve heard you talking on the phone on your lunch break, but you always treat me with respect, even though I’m new, this is my first church, and I barely know what I’m doing—“ 

The whole time he’s speaking, Harry’s rocking down against Nick’s pelvis, squeezing Nick’s shoulder like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it, like Nick wishes he were doing to Nick’s cock. And he’s staring at Nick’s face like he’s trying to decide which part to eat first. It all makes it very hard to concentrate. 

“Uh huh,” Nick says. “Respect. I would. You.” 

“And I’ve, um—“ Grabbing the back of Nick’s neck, Harry kisses him again, hard and wild and out of control, then he’s gone as quick as he’d started, back to devouring Nick’s face with his eyes. “I’ve looked in your desk. Seen things. Magazines. Catalogues. Or your computer maybe. I don’t know. But I’ve seen. I know you like. Corsets. And like stockings. Garters. On boys. So I— I buy some. Get them sent right to the church because I don’t know what else to do, even though it’s risky. You open my mail sometimes. You might see them. Maybe I want you to see them.” 

Harry’s stopped rocking, is just shaking now, thighs and arse stiff under Nick’s roaming hands. It’s somehow even hotter. Might be one of the hottest things Nick’s ever seen. He’s starting to wonder if he might come just from Harry’s words and the hot weight of him. 

“But you don’t. And I— I put them on anyway. A day there’s nothing, nothing planned. And just you. You’re there. And you come into my office. To bring me something. And I’m just pulling my frock on over the things I’ve bought. And you see. You know. And you get. It turns you on. Even though I’m not sure if it’s me, or just the—“

“It’s you,” Nick chokes out. “It’s definitely you.” 

Harry nods, eyes on Nick’s mouth. “Fuck,” he says. “Fuck, I’m gonna—“ His shaking increases and his mouth goes wide, his eyes squeeze shut, and there’s too many layers between them to feel it, but it’s clear Harry’s come. Nick’s skin is so hot it’s about to melt off, but he gathers Harry closer, rubs his back, kisses his head where he’s collapsed into Nick’s neck. 

“Jesus,” Nick says. That was amazing. He’s never watched while someone talked themself off before. “You are—“

“Hot,” Harry says, struggling upright. “Too many—“ He starts clawing at the priest costume, trying to untangle it from their legs and pull it over his head at once, which isn’t working at all, not least because the collar is still done up at the back. 

“Here,” Nick says, wincing as he pinches his dick trying to sit up. “Let me help.” 

Between them, they get the thing off, and it’s instantly cooler. Until Nick sees what Harry’s been wearing all night under his clothes. 

The basque is black lace and red satin, stark contrast to even the orgasm flush of Harry’s skin, and has six little suspenders that disappear under the matching satin pants and emerge the other side to hold up black fishnet stockings. They’re a bit twisted after Harry’s acrobatics, but the ensemble still looks amazing. “Jesus,” Nick says again. Maybe inappropriate under the circumstances of the fantasy Harry’s been spinning, but Nick’s not exactly in full control of his word choices at the moment. 

“I need to suck you,” Harry says. “I’d want. If I were him, I’d have been thinking about it for ages. What it would be like. What it would taste like. If you’d let me. If you’d like it. And I— For me. Harry. I’ve been thinking about it all day. Shit.” 

“Yes.” Nick says. Whoever. Whatever. The naughty kinky priest or the kind boy who’d found him in a car park and took him home. Either way Nick wants it. “Yes. Please.” 

Harry slips to the floor, and Nick’s grateful for the plush area rug he bought last month, because he can’t immediately find a cushion to throw Harry for his knees, and immediate is apparently key. By the time he’s finished the thought about the cushion, Harry has his jeans open, is tugging them and his pants down his thighs, mouth hovering close like the second Nick’s free he wants it in there. And Nick’s not wrong with this assessment. 

Still pulling with his left hand to get Nick’s pants below his nuts, Harry angles Nick’s dick for his mouth with his right and goes down. Like, _down_ down. This is not the virgin priest sucking his cock, and Nick is one-hundred percent okay with that. Harry slurps and licks and uses his fist and takes Nick right to the back of his throat. Nick hopes he’s trying to make Nick come as fast as he can, because either way, that’s what’s gonna happen. “I’m—“ Nick grunts, and Harry flicks his gaze up, gives Nick a little nod, and stays right where he is. Nick knows he’s clean, so he lets him. 

When Nick pulls him gently off because ow, too much, Harry rests his head on Nick’s knee and looks at him like the cat that got the cream. If the cat were a dancer in a cross-dressing burlesque. 

“Wow.” Nick says. Because, _wow_. 

“Yeah. That was. I’ve never, with the priest thing before. That was new.”

Nick nods. Harry’s too far away, so he pulls him up and gets him settled along Nick’s side. It means he has to use his leg on the floor for balance, but that’s okay. It was down there for the blowjob anyway. “Me too,” he says once they’re comfortable. 

“I liked it.” 

Nick chuckles. “I noticed.” He gives Harry a squeeze. “And yeah. Me too. I liked you liking it. And the, um. The rest, too.” 

Harry nuzzles under Nick’s jaw, sucks a wet kiss there, finishes it of with a gentle nibble. “What’s your policy on overnight guests?” he asks, face still hidden. 

“I’m pro.” Nick says. “But you aren’t allowed to sneak out in the morning. If you need a wee okay, but if you want a shower or something, wake me up first? Tell me where you’re going?” He feels Harry nod against his shoulder. 

“Deal,” he says. He sounds barely awake. 

“Rule number two, is we make it to the bedroom before we fall asleep,” Nick tells him, digging tickly fingers into his ribs. “This sofa’s too small for the both of us.” 

“Deal,” Harry says again, even sleepier than before. 

Nick gets up and gathers Harry into his arms. He’s heavier than he looks, but Nick’s been lifting weights, and it’s only just down the hall. As he goes, he wonders how Harry got him up two flights of stairs and into bed the night before. He hopes he was with it enough to at least put one foot in front of the other. 

Harry looks very pretty in his satin and lace on Nick’s white duvet, but he shouldn’t have to sleep in lingerie. He’s not particularly helpful in getting it off, but he does murmur appreciatively as Nick unsnaps the garters, peels the stockings down his legs, pulls off his wet pants and wipes him up with the dry bit remaining. He even mostly rolls himself over so Nick can get to the basque’s hooks. “Mmm,” he says when Nick gets the last one undone and peels it open. He rolls back and all the way over onto his side, knees bent and hands curled under his chin. Nick has to tug the duvet out from under him to tuck him underneath it, but it’s not as hard as it could have been. Nick goes to brush his teeth. 

When he comes back, Harry’s rolled onto his other side, facing the middle of the bed. His eyes are open, mostly. “I forgot my toothbrush,” he says, soft. 

“I keep spares under the sink. Put one on the counter for you. There’s a towel too, and a face cloth.” 

“Ooh. Boy Scout.” 

Nick scoffs. “Not hardly. I just like to have friends stay over.” 

“I know.” Harry says, slight smile twitching his mouth. “I listen to your show, remember?” 

“Cheeky.” Nick gives the curl dangling over Harry’s eye a tug. “So you knew I’d let you stay the night?” 

Harry shrugs. “Hoped. It might be different for hookups. Dates. I— People like me, I mean.” 

Harry’s right, is the thing. There are hookups Nick’s wished would leave while he still had his dick in their mouth. But Harry already feels like he fits in the friend category. After— Shit. After less than twenty-four hours. “Don’t think there are any other people like you,” Nick says. “Showing up on my doorstep in a corset and a priest’s costume carrying Thai food. Are you joking?” 

“Not joking,” he answers, grin saying he gets the reference, but he’s not going to make a big deal out of it. “Okay then. Sleep now. And I won’t sneak off in the morning.” He reaches out and hooks a pinky around Nick’s thumb, and closes his eyes. Nick would do the same, but he isn’t tired yet. Besides, there’s enough light coming through the window that he can see Harry’s eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. It’s pretty. 

 

As drowsiness starts to overtake him, Nick feels a little bit like he might be going crazy. Who finds a guy this perfect at a stranger’s wedding in Milton Keynes? Who does that? He reaches for his phone and scrolls through the three missed calls and four emoji texts from Aimee. Hits reply. “Can’t talk tonight,” he types. “But plus side, you’ll be getting even better goss tomorrow.” 

She sends back giant shocked eyes, glarey eyes, the finger emojis that mean fucking, and the smug moon, finishing it off with “call me tomorrow or you’re dead.”

Nick replies with sparkle manicure, and checks his phone’s on do not disturb. Harry snuffles a little in his sleep and rolls to his stomach. Nick re-hooks their pinky and thumb, and closes his eyes. Sleep comes quickly. 

~fin


End file.
